


Maybe

by shewearsglasses



Series: Bat City [3]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ass-Kicking, Attempted Sexual Assault, Babs is a badass, Bad Flirting, Badass, Bat Family, Bounty Hunters, Dick tries to save the day, F/M, Fighting Kink, Fights, Flirting, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, Motorcycles, Older Woman/Younger Man, Police, Protectiveness, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Sexual Assault, Subways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewearsglasses/pseuds/shewearsglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbara Gordon can take care of herself. Dick Grayson, stupidly, thought otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe

They meet on the subway home. It’s Gotham and—she checks her watch—2:34am so the only look they share is uncomfortable and suspicious. But his echoing smile is inviting and she does recognize him—so there’s that.

The son of the billionaire, Bruce Wayne. Or well—not the son _exactly_ , more like the adopted heir and lone ward of Gotham’s favorite orphan. Still, he’s not bad looking. Handsome, she might even insist were it not dark and were she not exhausted beyond reason. She’d taken a shift at the Police bureau when one of her father’s secretaries had called in sick. Usually that was all fine and dandy, but she’d also spent most of the day wrangling down bail jumpers, and a few particularly slippery ladies had really drained her.

There’s a couple of other men at the bottom of the train, and they eye her with appraising eyes. She can feel their stares as they scour her body from head to toe and back up again. She knows the Wayne kid is also watching—what is he a year younger than her? Two? Three? She remembers him being younger than her but that’s the end of it. And what _is_ his name again? Something long and wealthy-sounding. Not that she has any place to mock when her name is Barbara. What? Was she born in the late 60’s or something?

There’s few others on the train—besides her, the Wayne kid—who she’s going to assume is around twenty-five and thus three years younger—and those two misogynistic guys—just a woman and her baby, who no one goes near, and a family of three. The parents—or who she assumes are the parents—are squabbling. The woman has kind eyes behind thin glasses, and short, dark hair. The man, on the other hand, has wavy blond hair and muscles enough for both of them. A little girl sits on the woman’s side—she’s maybe fourteen with blonde pigtails and a purple backpack clutched in her grip. She looks so sad, and Barbara debates saying something to cheer her up but then the train is coming to a stop.

She stands with a jolt, and the Wayne kid meets her gaze, offering a final smile before she exits through the subway doors. She knows the two guys follow her off, but she doesn’t allow herself to react—better not to give them the knowledge she’s already been tipped off.

The subway departs, leaving only the three of them on the empty platform. She reaches into her purse and pulls out the compact mirror she kept for situations just like this. She also pulls out the lipstick-mace her dad had bought for her a few years ago. It looked just like lipstick—so it wouldn’t give itself away until the last possible second. Just as she pulls out the objects, her hand brushes against her gun and she smirks. She’ll be fine.

She uses the mirror with one hand, lipstick in the other as she pretends to reapply her make-up. She keeps walking, taking the stairs steadily into the underground parking garage where her black Toyota resides.

The mirror shows the two men snickering behind her and miming the molestation they’re assuming they will soon prepare. She puts the mirror back in her purse, and grabs her keys to show the men she’s near her car. Just as she’d assumed, they take this motion as the go-ahead.

“Hey sweetie,” one man calls from behind her, and she pretends to stiffen. The other jogs up next to her so they’re walking side-by-side. She gives them an uneasy smile.

“Where ya headed?” the other man asks. He has red hair that’s fiery and will be an easy identifier if they run away. He also wears a bright blue ring on his index finger, and has thin wiry glasses she debates breaking in his face. The first man catches up—he has long dark hair held up by a rubber-band, and a red head-band wrapped around his forehead. He wears the same ring—must be a gang.

She purses her lips carefully, and coughs. All part of the act. She’s known anxiety well—having grown up with a near-diagnosable form of the illness. “Home,” she says, forcing her voice to come out meek and shrill.

One man reaches out to put his hand around her shoulder and she decides to give up the act sooner rather than later. She slides her own hand around his wrist and twists it behind his back. He grunts and she bends the arm against him, effectively trapping it against his back. His partner shrieks, “You bitch!” Then he throws his arm at her, probably aiming for a punch but his form is all wrong. Barbara bends a bit, the guy she’s holding cries out when she pushes him to the ground in the process. She then kicks the other guys’ legs out from under him.

He hits the ground hard, and once again, all wrong. He’d obviously done nothing to shield his head, because it cracks against the ground. It’s loud, but not loud enough to warrant her worry. She winces, but that’s the end of her pity for the loser. He coughs, and takes too long to get up. He might have a concussion.

The other man’s swinging at her now, and this guy knows how to hit. His speed takes her off guard, and he lands on punch to her jaw, but that’s all she allows, because she spins and kicks him in his own jaw. Her father would’ve been proud of that roundhouse. He hits the ground harder than his friend, and he doesn’t get up.

She must’ve hit harder than she’d expected cause he’s out. His friend nudges at his shoulder, and then gives up. She stands still, one hand lazily bent to rest on her hip. “Learn your lessen?” She says, hoping he had and she can call the police and be done with it.

He opens his mouth to respond, and is interrupted by the growl of a motorcycle behind her. She whips around, praying it isn’t back-up for the two men. The vehicle carries a single man, and she recognizes the black jacket with two blue streaks up the arms. It’s that Wayne kid from the train. She grimaces. When she turns back to regard the men, the conscious one is sprinting across the parking lot.

A husky laugh at her back makes her turn again. The guy is removing his helmet, and the moment is reminiscent of a Baywatch slow-mo scene. He even does the slow hair flip. She is not impressed, to say the least.

“So, guess you didn’t need my help after all?” He says, smirking. Were she anyone else, Barbara would’ve melted. His smile is sharp and blinding, but she isn’t an awestruck teenage—so she tilts her head as if to say ‘And?’

She gives him the same dry look she’d given the men earlier, complete with a hand on her hip. She feels like she’s reprimanding a child, “He got away.”

He tips his chin in the direction of the unconscious one, “You got his partner though.”

Barbara sighs, and turns back to the guy. She flips out her cell and dials her father. She knows for a fact he’s still in the offices. His shift doesn’t end till near 8am. He answers on the first ring, “Hey dad.”

“Babs? What’s going on, honey?”

Behind her, the Wayne kid gets off his bike and approaches the perp. “I just got into the parking garage and I was attacked.”

“Attacked! Are you—”

“I wasn’t hurt, dad.” She touches at her sore jaw. He doesn’t need to know about that. “I’ve got one unconscious and one on foot, but I’ve got his details. Want me to bring him in?”

“No, sweetheart.” An exasperated sigh. “I’ll send out a squad car to pick him up. Usual garage?”

“Yeah, third floor. Near Lot B.” The Wayne kid flips open the guys’ jacket and pries out a wallet from the pocket. He opens it and begins looking through his details. She rolls her eyes.

“I hope you’re not lying about injuries, Barbara. I’d like you to be more careful.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. As always.”

“I love you, sweetie.”

Barbara rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, and slides a hand down her face, “Yeah, dad. Love you too.” She flips her cell closed.

“Still not ready for an upgrade?”

She looks up at the words, “What?”

He’s smirking at her, “Your phone.”

She looks down and regards her 2007 Verizon flip-phone. “It gets the job done,” She says matter-of-factly, and pockets the object. She then drops to her knees beside him, “Why’re you here, anyway? You didn’t get off on my stop.”

“I got off on the next one and sped back here,” He flips the wallet closed, and hands her the license. “Figured you’d have needed help.” She glares at him, and he stood up, holding out his hands in a relaxed gesture. “I was obviously wrong.”

“Obviously,” she says, standing alongside him. “You can leave now; the police are on their way.”

“You’re Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, right?”

She spins to face him, “How do you know that?”

He shrugs, and leans back against a parked Honda. “I know my stuff.”

“And it doesn’t hurt to live under the Wayne roof either,” she says, snorting and turning to face her car. She pulls her keys out and unlocks the doors.

“So, you know me too, then.”

She ignores his grammar. “Not exactly,” she opens her back doors and pulls out a tablet to look the guy up. Her father had installed some of the police databases onto it to help her out with her cases—not that he fully approved of her job.

When she glanced back at him, the Wayne kid was raising a brow at her. “What does that mean?”

“I know of you,” she says, “But I don’t know you at all. I don’t even know your name.”

He kicks off the car and crosses the parking lot to stand beside her, “That can be remedied.” He holds out a hand. She eyes it over her tablet, then accepts it with a sigh. “Richard Grayson,” he says, “But my friends call me Dick.” She ignores his wink.

“Uh-huh, That so?” She doesn’t look up at him. She’s too busy scrolling through the databases looking for a match on her stalker.

“Yup,” he says with too much enthusiasm. He’s still smirking. She looks up at him again, meeting his eager eyes. He grins.

A match pops up, and she saves it to her tablet and then closes out of the device, sliding it into her purse. She looks back at Richard. She keeps her face carefully blank, “Don’t flirt with me.”

His smile drops for a beat, but then it’s back and brighter than ever. He even defeats her scowl with a laugh. She squints at him. What’s with this guy? He’s seriously the sole heir of Bruce Wayne? Renowned socialite who rarely flirted or smiled or felt happiness when it wasn’t on television. “I’m not flirting with you,” he says, and the smirk takes over for the earlier grin. “At least, not _yet_.”

At this, she finally cracks a smile, “Oh, don’t.”

“What?” He feigns innocence, “What?”

She laughs, looking away, then glances back at him. She laughs again, “Don’t play that card. Don’t be all sultry and flirtatious while you deny actually flirting with me.”

“Sultry?”

“Yes,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Sultry.”

“Are you calling me attractive?” He asks, smirk more arrogant than ever.

“ _Hardly_ ,” she rolls her eyes. “Being ‘sultry’ doesn’t mean you’re hot, it means you’re acting like you’re hot.”

He leans ever forward, and she wants to scoot away, but if she does, she’ll slip off the car and she’s not about to let him mock her for that. So, instead she just puts a freshly-manicured hand on his chest to keep him away. His eyes drop down to the hand, but he pulls them back up to meet hers immediately.

He hasn’t been this close till now so she is just noticing how gorgeous his eyes are—and oh, are they. They’re a dark blue that she could drown in—she coughs—not that she’d ever _admit_ that. Their blue color—which might just be the prettiest eye color she’s ever seen—is further highlighted by his dark brows above, and the swooping bangs across his forehead. His skin is pale, which makes his brilliant eyes stand out even more. And his jaw is curved and prominent. He has some of the most angular—and perfect—cheekbones she’s ever seen. She coughs again, and this time actually manages to step away from the car—and him.

He pouts at the loss of her presence beside him, “You still think I’m hot though, right?”

Her face goes blank. What? Was this guy serious? She’s about to respond, but then a police squad car is rolling up and she screws a fake-smile onto her lips and turns to regard one of her fathers’ officers.

He takes her testimony, carefully _slaps_ the man on the ground awake, and then takes him away in the car. Surprisingly enough, Dick waits with her through it all.

She regards him suspiciously as he waves at the officer driving away, “What’s with you?”

“Excuse me?” He lowers his hand and turns to her with a smile on his stupid face. Since when were billionaires so happy? He fit with the stereotypical arrogance, but he was always smirking or grinning. He was constantly joking and being polite. What the hell—she expected the spawn—ward—of Bruce Wayne to be a huge asshole. And here he was: the polar opposite, standing in front of her with ocean eyes and a glowing smile.

“Why’d you wait? Why’d you attempt to save me? Why are you _here_?” She stresses each question individually, waving her arms around to prove her point. She huffs at him, crossing her arms once she’s done.

He eyes her, then blinks and the happy façade is gone. Really? Just like that? Was it all an act then? As if reading her mind, he says, “This isn’t—hasn’t been an act. I saw you on the train, and I watched those men follow you off. I assumed—wrongly—that you were just another defenseless woman about to become a faceless name in the trail of rapes and murders.”

“How thoughtful of you,” she says, her voice monotone.

He holds up a hand to give her pause. She opens her mouth again, and he stresses his hand out. She rolls her eyes and allows him to continue, “I’m sorry for assuming that. But would you rather I assumed you needed help? Or would you rather actually need help and now have any?” His gaze scours her own—searching. She swallows, and doesn’t answer. “Honestly though? I thought you were gorgeous.” She sucks in a breath at the world, “Ethereal with your hair color and those eyes and—”

“Don’t,” she says quietly and he doesn’t push his luck.

He coughs into his fist, and continues, relaxing against her car once again. “So, I got off, grabbed my bike, and sped in here. And I’m glad I did, cause you kicking their asses? Surprising turn-on.”

“Yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes for the nth time, “Good idea. Continue to flirt with the girl who was almost just molested.”

His mouth opens and closes. Dick chuckles, head falling back. Barbara surprises even herself by enjoying the slope of his neck. She finds herself wanting to run her hands along the smooth skin there—and not even cause she wants to choke him. He says, “You just keep shutting me down, Babs. I’m still here, aren’t I?” She shrugs, and his echoing laugh stills her. He needs to stop doing that. It’s causing the butterflies that she’d previously locked in a cage to escape.

“That’s what I thought. You kind of like this, don’t you?” Dick leans in a bit and she doesn’t move away. She can almost feel his breath against her forehead—he’s taller than her but only by a few inches. “Of course you do.”

“Oh, don’t get cocky, Lover-boy,” she says, truly laughing for the first time that evening. When she opens her eyes, Dick is staring, open-mouthed.

“You should laugh more often,” he says, and then he clears his throat. He nods once, looking away and she sees a coat of pink dusting his cheeks. She smiles despite herself. “Anyway,” he says, “I obviously like you, so that’s why I stayed.”

She shrugs, and when she shifts to the left, her keys dig into her hip. She steps away from the car and unlocks the doors, setting her purse and most of her belongings in the passenger seat. Dick’s watching her the entire time. His gaze burns a hole in her back.

“You know nothing about me,” she says, shutting the door and rounding the car to stand in front of him.

“Oh, I know enough,” he says. He straightens, and cracks his knuckles. He then leans more comfortably against her trunk. He bends his elbows behind him, and smirks, “I’m Bruce Wayne’s ward, remember? I know _everything_.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Everything?”

“I know you’re Barbara Gordon, niece to James and Barbara Gordon who raised you after your own parents passed.” She blanches at the word ‘niece.’ _No one_ knew she wasn’t their real daughter. “I know you’re a bounty hunter who picks up empty shifts at the police office to help out your uncle. I know you graduated both high school and college as valedictorian, and would’ve pursued your masters had your aunt not passed.”

She says, “Stop.” It comes out a whisper, but he hears. She feels uncomfortable with him knowing so much about her when they’ve just met.

“Sorry, was that too much?”

She finds her smile returning, but she resolutely turns it down. Instead, her lips twist into the corner of her mouth. “Ya think?”

Dick shifts closer to her, and she doesn’t speak. “Let me take you out to dinner to return the favor? I’ll tell you all about myself.” His lips lift into the smirk she’s familiarized with him. She laughs, and his smirk only grows. “That a yes?”

“It’s too early for dinner,” she says instead.

It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow, “Oh yeah? You wanted to do this now?” He checks his watch, “You realize it’s almost 4am now? And that neither of us has slept?”

His teasing has broken down her walls somehow. It must be something about the way she feels drawn to him. He’s so familiar and yet so _new_. She leans back, involuntarily trying to put some sort of barrier between them. “My mistake,” she smiles, looking away.

“I mean, I’m up for spending the rest of my life with you and all, Babs, but can I take a shower first?”

She gapes at him. “Shut up,” she says indignantly, slapping his arm to push him back a step.

He grins, then stops to reach back into his pocket. He pulls out a pen, and grabs her hand. She’s torn between pulling away and curling her fingers through his. She does neither. “Since your phone is so dark ages, I’ll try to keep with the timeline.”

“That barely made sense,” she says, and watches as he scrawls seven digits across her hand. “People _still_ write their phone numbers down.”

“That’s what you think,” he says, capping his pen. He sends her a bewitching grin, “But you’re handicapped by that dinosaur. So handicapped, I believe, that you’re seeing things. Hallucinations, maybe?”

“Oh, stop,” she says, tearing her hand away.

He laughs and slides the pen into his pocket, “Call me.”

“What makes you think I even will?” She asks as he leaves her side to straddle his motorcycle. His hands grip the helmet and raise it to his chest. He smirks at her one final time and pulls it over his head. “I didn’t even say ‘yes’ to the whole dinner thing.”

“I just know,” he says. Then, he slams his foot down on the pedal and guns it out of there.

Her gaze is drawn after him. She’s still standing there like an idiot when he turns the corner and disappears from sight. She lets out a breath, and puts her hand out to gaze at the numbers written there. Should she call him? Well, yes, but _would_ she call him?

She lowers her hand and rounds her car, opening the front door and sliding the key into the ignition. She smirks.

 _Maybe_.

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two so damn much.
> 
> Did you catch the Stephanie Brown reference???


End file.
